


With a Name Like Drake

by orphan_account



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Merlin (TV), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics), Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Crossover, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Gen, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Other, Sort of Crossover, batfamily, warning cursing, warnings cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all men are created equal. Some aren't even created as men, really. People always did say there was something about Gotham that didn't seem quite right. It's a city of pain and horror and crime and decadence. And yet, so many stay there. So many are loyal to it. So many give their lives for it. It's strange, but the city inspires these heroes to fight. Almost like the knights, and Gotham is their kingdom. Maybe it was the heroes that were strange all along. One little hero in particular...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bruce Wayne? Batman?

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched too much Merlin, and Merlin reminded me of Tim in some ways. Then I realized, last name Drake. And it all just spiralled from there. I'm on a roll.
> 
> My other works, for all who read them, will still happen.
> 
> This will be written in clusters of drabbles and oneshots. This is due to the fact that I do not have the brainpower necessary to string together a coherent story idea right now.
> 
> This is sort of a crossover with Merlin. But I only used the idea of a magic user as a dragonlord and made some references. Nothing else.
> 
> NOTHING IS MINE. MERLIN IS THE BBC'S. BATMAN IS DC'S.
> 
> Tim's age varies from drabble to drabble. If it is important, I'll note it.
> 
> Enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tim has always known he was different."

Tim has always known he's a bit different.

 

He was always smarter than the other kids. Always known more, learned faster, seen the world differently. Tim knew early on that he was different. He could feel it.

 

Of course, that time when he set Bill Jonesy's hair on fire when he pushed him over during lunch may have cemented the idea just a tad.

 

<><><>

 

There are no more dragons. Tim can feel it. It's this empty feeling inside him, small and ignorable, but there. It isn't empty like a empty stomach. It's empty in an awkward way. It's the feeling you get after a bad fight with a friend, when you want to say something but you don't. You just stay silent and they do too. And it feels like you should be able to do something about it, like if you just opened your mouth or reached out...

 

But you can't. And you can that inability inside you. You can feel that awkwardness and upsetness and even anger create this thing inside you. That's the kind of void Tim feels. That's how he knows there are no more dragons.

 

He can feel it throb when he closes his eyes and concentrates. It's almost like a heartbeat.

 

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

 

When he was younger, he'd just lay in bed and feel the undulating throb throughout the night.

 

(Because apparently, dragonlords don't need sleep. Of course, Tim had no way of knowing that when he was younger. He just filed it away as yet another reason he needed therapy.)

 

When Tim finds out what he is though, the most obvious question pops to mind almost immediately.

 

('Almost immediately' because before this question, the first thing that actually pops into Tim's mind is that with a last name like Drake, he should've known)

 

"But there are no more dragons. What is the point of me if there aren't any dragons?"

 

And the empty feeling grows just that much larger. Helpless. Alone. Angry. Unwanted.

 

(Of course, the first time he manages to conjure up two tornadoes on his first try, that feeling goes away almost entirely.)

 

<><><>

 

Dragonlords used to serve kings. And like dragons, those don't exist anymore. So it stands to reason that prophecies from dragons about kings shouldn't exist either.

 

But apparently, those annoying little prophecies that dragons used to hand out like candies are pretty tenacious. 

 

So it isn't all that surprising (that's a lie--it's surprising as hell) when a spirit of a dead fortune teller floats it's way into Tim's room and tells him that it is his destiny to help guide Bruce Wayne. Considering Tim's position, not  **that** surprising.

 

It isn't all that pleasant either.

 

And that, apparently, opens up the free for all.

 

Every single sprite or river guardian or talking mushroom (Yep, talking mushrooms, because why the hell not?) takes it upon themselves to remind Tim of his destiny at every fucking turn.

 

Tim isn't really sure what his life has come to, but there happens to be a very insistent pigeon that has recently taken to motivational speaking every morning outside of Tim's bedroom window.

 

Every. Morning.

 

Every morning Tim wakes up to,

 

"You can do it. I know you can. Guiding others is easy, it promise."

 

Or,

 

"You know, I knew a guy like you once who didn't want to face his destiny at all. We still talk sometimes, and he says the only thing he regrets -- you know what it is?-- the only thing he regrets is not facing his fate sooner. I'm telling you, kid, give it a shot. You don't want to grow up with that kind of weight."

 

You'd think that with the name DRAGONlord, Tim would only have to put up with this BS from dragons. But noooooooo...

 

But Tim is no doormat. He's met Bruce Wayne. There is nothing to guide there. The man is literally nothing more than an arrogant toad. Plus, he's stinking rich and has 5 girlfriends a day. He doesn't even need any guiding. And what does that even mean? Help guide. What even is that? Guide him to what?

 

No, if there's anyone that Tim is going to help, it's Batman. But Batman has Robin, so Tim hardly sees the need to step in.

 

Doesn't mean he can't take pictures though.

 

<><><>

 

"Dick, I am not naming the first dragon the world has seen since the time of King Arthur 'Flappy'."

 

"Flappy is a great name. Appreciate."

<><><>

Tim finds out about his heritage at age 9, when he stumbles upon a family heirloom.

"My dad gave that to me," Jack says, head tilting to gesture at the book Tim's sifting through, "and his dad gave it to him. Goes back ages, but it's all written in runes. No one understands what it means. We even brought it to a professor, but nada. Bunch of gibberish. It's pretty cool though, son. Feel free to keep it and bring it to school for show and tell or something. You know, Timmy, your grandpa told me that it was a book of spells, owned by Merlin himself. From that old bedtime story remember?

Tim nods. Of course he remembers. He's read all the full versions of the Adventures of King Arthur after all.

"And the scribbles on the sides," Jack continues, "are Merlin's own notes."

Jack pauses and shrugs.

"Might be true, Timmy. You never know. We can't read it so we don't really know what it is anyways. So be careful with that."

"Now, I've got to wait for a phone call. Boring adult stuff. Why don't you take that and go play somewhere else, okay buddy?"

Tim nods and scurries off. His heart beating so hard he thinks it's about to jump right out of his chest and do the hula.

He can read the writings.

<><><>

"So for once every month, every drop of liquid I touch turns into blood. It lasts a week."

Dick almost chokes on his own uvula.

"It usually starts on the day the moon is roundest that month."

Dick nods and makes a high pitched grunt.

"Really, there's no function to it. Plus, all the magic I use to do it makes my head hurt and gives me these terrible cramps. And I'm exhausted, like, always."

Dick makes a noise that may be a cross between sympathy and extreme caution.

"I took the blood to analyze once. Nothing. We've got nothing in this realm that matches it. Which makes sense, after all, I've never known any animal on Earth to have blood that tastes so citrus-y."

Dick can't anymore.

"...tastes?"

"Well yeah, you don't expect me not drink anything for that whole week do you? It's kind of gross, but overall not as bad as it could be."

"Mmm. Mmhmm."

"The showers are nice though. You wouldn't expect it to be so nice, but it's warm and thick. Feels like a shower and a mud bath all at once. Plus it always gives me this mad amount of energy."

Dick has given up at speaking. Tim will have to understand.

"On that note, I think I can draw energy from blood. Wonder if there's a name for that kind of thing. Hey, what do you think would happen if I drank it?"

**_Tim. Tim, no. Tim, stop_ ** _._

"Dick?" Tim's confused face is nose to nose with Dick's, "Dick, are you okay? I asked you what you think."

"Do you not notice how wrong your life is due to a terrible and traumatic childhood or are you actually always doing this on purpose? I can never tell."

<><><>

Tim learns very quickly that magic manifests very differently on everyone. And that this is true even among dragonlords.

Merlin's notes say that his earlier, more reactionary magic mostly made things freeze in time and space and move some furniture around.

When Tim tried closing his eyes and tapping into his magic for the first time, he summoned a herd of deer and 3 and a half howler monkeys.

Three and a half.

Don't believe it?

Tim took a picture.

<><><>

Tim takes Merlin's example and keeps notes. Notably neater notes.

Tim puts them in a journal.

It is a professional journal and is in no way a diary that holds all of his "hidden and deep seated angst".

Also, Tim enchanted it, when he got it, so that anyone looking in it without permission is turned into a toad.

It's not very strong magic though, so it may only partially turn said sneak into a toad.

Tim takes a look over a Dick, who is desperately hobbling around with giant, webbed feet and has, for the most part, gone bald.

Yep, definitely only partially.

He'll have to make note of that in the journal.

"Ribbit."

<><><>

There has not been a new dragon lord for centuries. Tim's dad is certainly not a dragonlord.

It makes sense. There hasn't been a new dragon in centuries either. 

Merlin was the last known one, and he disappeared in the 1850's according to Tim's research.

He may have died.

He may have gone to another dimension.

Either way, he left around the same time Kilgarrah finally died.

Because a dragonlord isn't needed in a world with no dragons.

So Tim has to wonder, why is he here?

Dragonlords have an amazing amount of power. Stronger than any other magical creature or user. Gods among men.

But there is a catch. Dragons are a part of their soul.

But there are no dragons. Not anymore.

Tim hopes to never meet the Titans' member Raven. He doesn't want to know what that giant hole he feels is. Rather, he doesn't need to be told.

_Why am I here?_

(Tim knows that's why  doesn't shoo all those animal prophets away permanently. Because even if it's just Bruce Wayne, even if it is stupid, it's something for him. And Tim really doesn't believe in fate or gods. He believes in choices and willpower. But that feeling that fills that intangible void whenever he hears someone say 'Bruce Wayne', that is what makes him choose to allow the prophesies. But the same feeling rushes through him when he hears or sees 'Batman'. Stronger and more alive. Like Bruce Wayne is an existence,  but Batman is the real deal. And that is what makes Tim climb out of a fifth floor window every night to get a glimpse of Batman. It makes no sense though-- why would the two cause a similar feeling? Why these two? The answer is on the tip of his tongue...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if you like.
> 
> Tim is 9 when he discovers who Batman is. He discovers he is a dragonlord early on in that same year jn this AU.


	2. Unicorns and Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I could have gone my whole life without seeing that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh I'm starting to like this story. It's fun. 
> 
> Also as far as magic goes, the spells I made up are just english translated into old english. And the stuff is mistly just fun stuff I thought up. Any and all legit information is from the wiki page. This is for when I do actually use anything. Maybe not here but later on.
> 
> Timmy is a cutie patootie.

"Tim, this is Cassandra. Cassandra, Tim. She'll be working with us from now on."

_Wow, Bruce, way to warn a guy._

But then Tim looks over at 'Cassandra' and all the arguments stop.

<><><>

It's an oddly good fit, no matter which angle it's looked at from.

Robin and Batgirl.

The little detective and the youngest martial arts master.

Tim and Cassandra.

The only dragonlord left and the keeper of the unicorns.

Teammates, complementary roles, friends, fellow immortal creatures made of pure and unchecked magic.

 _Yeah,_ Tim thinks,  _I can learn to like this partnership._

<><><>

"Cassandra, please wear some clothes."

Shrug.

"Pretty please?"

Shrug.

"Hey! Don't cast questionable teleportation spells when I'm talking to you!"

She's gone.

Welcome to Tim's life.

<><><>

"Cassandra, no. I can't just cast a spell and teach you how to read like that. I'm sure there's a spell like that somewhere but no."

"Why?"

"Well, first of all, all spellwork that has to deal with altering learning processes and brain activity are risky and may leave you catatonic..."

"I fought Shiva, I'll live."

"And second, because Barbara has give me strict intructions to not do the that. Specifically. And I'm afraid of her."

"Fear gets the blood rushing and the adrenaline up."

"So does seeing Oracle coming at me with a knife."

"You can take her."

"You don't really mean that."

"No. But not my problem."

"You're an awful person."

"Yes. Now find spell."

"Cassandra, no. Its a learning experience. One you should be allowed to enjoy."

...

"Did you just hiss at me? Rude."

<><><>

It's easy for Tim to be with Cass. 

Maybe it's because she guessed his secret five seconds into meeting him. Maybe it's because she knows everything he wants to say even if he doesn't vocalize it. Maybe it's because there's hardly any point in lying to her anyways.

Maybe it's because she understands.

Because it's more than just the magic. It's more than just that they both live a triple life that makes Tim's head spin. 

With the company Tim keeps, there's actually a large number of people other than Cass just like that, that Tim could relate to.

 No, it's more than that.

Cass, Tim knows, understands better than anyone else ever could.

Because when Tim sits next to her and stares off at the sky with her, he can feel the same void in her as in him.

And he knows that she is thinking the same thing as him.

That it'd be so pathetically easy to just float off, into the sky, into another time, into another universe. 

But they stay here. And he knows she understands.

Because together, in those moments, they are the only dragonlord left and the keeper of the unicorns, in a world with no more dragons and no more unicorns.

Two beings with no technical reason to be in this universe anymore, but are too stubborn and too contrary to leave.

Because this is home and this is worth it.

It has to be.

And maybe it's so easy for Tim to be with Cass because when he is with her, he has a purpose. When he's with her, he feels like maybe he could have been put on this Earth partially to keep her company.

And Tim isn't a big fate kind of guy. He really does believe in choices and free will.

But if there is a fate and this is what it decided for Tim, he thinks that he's kind of okay with that.

Plus, Tim really thinks that even if this isn't fate, Cassandra is his sister and he wouldn't have it any other way.

<><><>

"Tim, help."

There is a leg growing out of Cassandra's side. A horse leg. She did not ask for this. She did not train for this. This is not in her training. Nope. She can deal with bullets and thugs, but not this. This a horse leg. A freaking horse leg.

_There is a horse leg dangling out of the right side of her hip._

"I could have gone my whole life without seeing that."

"But you didn't. You have seen. Now come help."

"Cassandra, put the saw down first. Are you sure that is a good idea?"

"The best."

"Oh god..."

<><><>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha there was a mishap when updating this and not the whole chapter went up the first time. But it's good now. Go me.


	3. from father to son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is now a full fledged dragonlord, and it isn't worth it. It really isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahead.
> 
> It's supposed to be a bit disjointed because Tim is grief stricken and his thoughts aren't clear.
> 
> Warning: cussing.

<><><>

Tim's father is no sorcerer, but he is still part of the bloodline. He still inherited the ability to talk to dragons. He has that, even if he doesn't know it.

Or, rather, he  _had_ that even if he  _didn't_ know it.

Now, Tim has it. 

And he hates it.

It makes him sick. It makes him so sick he could vomit if he weren't so busy punching the ground.

_"Five minutes. I just needed to be five fucking minutes faster. I just needed five more minutes."_

But it's too late now, just like it was too late on that night.

And Tim knew when it happened, the second it happened. He could feel it the second "We'll make it" became "It's too late". He could feel his dad taking that last gasping breath. He could feel the life and energy rush out of his father's listless body.

And rush right into Tim.

And Tim knew then it was already too late. He knew that his last remaining family was gone forever. He knew he was an orphan.

And the first thig he felt was elation. Power.  _Magic._

Tim could feel the magic, that was formerly in his dad, settle into his own bones. He could feel it wrap around his soul.

He could feel the life and power that flowed around him. 

He had wondered if Cass, keeper of the unicorns, ever felt like that.

He had wondered if his dad ever felt like that.

He still wonders if his dad ever felt it. Ever knew that it was going to be his lasting legacy.

And now, all Tim will ever do is wonder.

Because his dad is dead and he will never answer.

And as he died, Tim could feel himself become faster, better, powerful. He could feel the language of the dragons dance on his tongue.

Of course, all it cost him was his dad.

And how wrong is it that gut wrenching sorrow and despair was only the second thing he felt?

Well, congratulations Tim.

Now he can feel life dance around him from every life form...except from the one person that he desperately wanted to feel it from.

His magic will never ever sense Jack Drake's life move inside him.

But as a recompense for being orphaned, Tim can now converse with dragons.

Who are also all dead.

DeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeadDEAD!

_"What was the point of this? Why did he have to die? Why couldn't I have been just a little bit faster? Just a little bit stronger? I was so close...!"_

Of couse, the irony being that Tim can be just a little bit faster. He can be just that much stronger. His magic is complete now. Now, he can be there in time to save his dad. But there is no more dad to save.

His dad died.

His dad died and Tim got magical powers from it.

What kind of sick joke is this? Is he supposed to be happy? Is he supposed to be thankful? For what?!

All Tim's got are his tears and a bunch of death. WHO IS HE SUPPOSED TO THANK FOR THAT?!

He's gained nothing. He has nothing. He gave everything so his family could sufffer for him.

His dad gave his life so Tim could have some goddamn fucking _magical powers._

Screw the powers! Screw magic! Screw Gotham! Screw the mission!

What did any of that matter to Tim now? He's lost everything. What does any of it matter now?

It makes him too sick to breath that his dad's death made him feel  _powerful._

That his dad died so he could talk to some FUCKING DEAD LIZARDS! So he could continue to be Robin!

" **It's not _fair_! It's not worth it! Give him back! Give! Him! Back! Take your STUPID magic back! Take the fucking costume too! I dont  _need it! Do you hear me? I don't want any of it! JUST GIVE HIM BACK!_ "**

Tim's fists hit the ground with every word and they don't stop even when Tim runs out of words.

Soon the only sounds in the large Gotham cemetery are wet smacks and dry heaves as Tim desperately pounds his mangled, bloodied knuckles against the frozen Gotham soil.

That's how Bruce finds him, punching the ground six feet above where his father is buried.

"...I-I can't feel him, Bruce. I can feel you. I can feel those fucking trees over there. But I can't feel  _him... I can't feel him, Bruce... why can't I feel my dad?"_

Tim Drake can knock twenty grown men out with two fingers and his legs tied together. If the mood suits him, he can even do it with nothing but a flash of his eyes. But no matter how hard he tries or how deep inside himself he digs, he will never feel his father's life return to his body. No matter what spells he mutters or drop kicks he pulls, he can't ever wrestle back those five minutes.

And Tim can't help but wonder if that is all his life is ever supposed to amount to.

Dead bodies and not being good enough when it matters the most.

"What is the point of me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch that was angsty. And sad. I will try a less sad one next time. Sorry.


	4. never told anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's all in the wrist, Timmers."

The first time Dick meets Tim, he feels something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He feels the energy swirl and sing around the small, teenaged boy. He could feel the magic curl itself around his own magic, clenching his insides and inducing a euphoric high that made him simultaneously insanely focused and dizzy with glee. He hadn’t felt so focused, so connected, so good since-since…

 

Since Haly’s.

 

Since his parents.

 

~.~.~

 

Dick never told Bruce. He never told anyone. Not even Barbara or Kory.

 

Never told them that he’s a druid.

 

Most people in Haly’s were—him and his parents included. And the circus grounds, holding so many druids, were almost always blessed. The magic was like a constant haze in the air, a constant presence that blanketed and protected the circus. It felt—well, there are no words for how it felt, but the closest thing for it is—balanced. It felt balanced. Like Haly’s was the place where the universe came together. Sacred ground. Nothing could hurt it, nothing could break it.

 

_(Too bad that wasn’t entirely true.)_

Dick’s wondered before if that isn’t why Haly’s was as popular as it was; because the Flying Graysons were great, they were the best of the best, but even they didn’t constitute the amazing popularity that Haly’s always garnered.

 

They operated successfully in Gotham, for god’s sake. In gloomy, unhappy Gotham. In the city of crime and tears and misery. Unclean air and anger abounds.

 

But never when Haly set up.

 

They took the fresh, clean feeling with them wherever they went. A cutting spring breeze that penetrated the dirty, polluted cloud that always seemed to cover Gotham.

 

And when Dick closes his eyes, even now, he can still smell the magic that used to be home. And there is no other word for it. The way he could feel every tree and bird and _life_ in every breath that he took…

 

But it was something Dick had pushed into the back of his mind long ago.

 

Because he loved Bruce and he loved Alfred and he loved the Titans and he even loved Gotham—gritty air and all. And magic became a distant memory. It became a nightmare. It became his mother and father's broken, bleeding bodies. And the pleasant beat of life and energy and balance became the sour grapes. And Dick could jump as high as he wanted, but he'd never taste it again. Magic had no place in the mission. Magic had no place in Dick. Not anymore.

 

But then Tim came along.

 

Tim came and everything changed.

 

Dick wonders if Tim even knows. If he knows what ran through Dick’s head the first time they met. If he knows how the feeling of home and life and _magic_ almost put Dick onto his knees. If Tim knows the nostalgia that just his presence brings. If Tim knows the reason that Dick clung so readily onto him right from the start. If Tim knows how selfish Dick’s endorsement of him is.

 

And Dick can’t help but feel a little guilty.

 

Because he stands by what he said, Tim is smarter than he’ll ever be and determined as hell. He’s one hell of a Robin and he’ll be an even better Batman (or Nightwing or whatever he sets out to be). But Dick still feels guilty.

 

Guilty for every cut, every bruise, every scrape.

 

Because he endorsed this. He told Bruce to put Tim out there. And he can’t help but wonder how much of that ringing endorsement is due to his own desperation for magic. For clean. For home.

 

But he can’t stop. He can’t stop wanting to bask in the pure, thrumming life that rolls off Tim in waves. He can’t help but want to feel so connected to—well—everything again. Like he once was.

 

And Tim can give him that.

 

( _But the question remains: Is it worth it? And it’s the only thing that Dick can think; it’s the only question that his concussed mind can wrap itself around right now. Right at this very second, as he watches his mentor dig yet another bullet out of his little brother. Is this worth him feeling connected? What will the feeling of ‘home’ cost him in the end? Is it all worth it?)_

 

* * *

 

 

“Dick can we have something other than cookie cereal for breakfast?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I am a growing child and you are a grown man and eating cookie-shaped sugar cereals day after day is beneath us.”

 

 

“Well, don’t let Captain Chocobeard hear you say that.”

 

“Dick, that is a cartoon cereal-man made to endorse unhealthy lifestyles and clogged arteries. Please act like you are 23 for just five seconds and eat something normal.”

 

“Normal is overrated.”

 

Dick reaches for the box of cereal and prepares two bowls, ignoring Tim’s groan of horror and disgust.

 

…and suddenly the box explodes.

 

“Well…eggs it is then. How do you want them, Dick?”

 

_Well played, little brother. Well played._

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes Dick really thinks he could learn to hate Tim and his little powers.

 

Like now.

 

“Okay, look Mr. Howler Monkey, I’m going to level with you. I have this brother who has magic, which he has used to summon you. I know he has magic, but he doesn’t know I know; so when he wakes up he’s going to give himself an aneurysm trying to explain you to me. And I don’t want to explain to him that I know or why I know. So, to avoid all this, I need you to just go away. I’d magic you away, but I can’t. I’m not that strong. You just need to go out that window and down the street to the police station. Blink if you feel me.”

 

…

 

Oh yeah, that monkey is _definitely_ judging him _so hard_.

 

* * *

 

 

Dick’s never told anyone.

 

Not Bruce.

 

Not Alfred.

 

Not Jason.

 

Not Babs.

 

Not Kory.

 

No one.

 

“…stupid spell won’t work. What am I doing wrong? I got to find him, I gotta. Why isn’t this working?!”

 

“It’s all in the wrist, Timmers. Let an old pro show you some tricks, yeah?”

 

First time for everything.


End file.
